I admit I have sadly neglected Passepartout in my Jules Verne
writings...but that's because I've always felt I couldn't do him justice
(he is a hard character to...characterize...you must admit). But, at last,
I came up with an idea that I think might work--it evolved from scenes such
as those in "Rocket to the Moon" and the second part of "The Cardinal's
Design"--scenes in which Passepartout must stand outside...and wait.
You'll see. Usual disclaimers: don't own characters, make no money off
story, intend no copyright infringement, write only for entertainment
purposes, and the story contains no spoilers. Please write a review at the
end--feedback is a godsend (or dogsend, as I originally typed out--what
kind of Freudian slip is *that*?)

DUTIES UNSPOKEN

A manservant's duty is to wait on his master, to give his master a
life of consummate ease.

Sometimes, though, Passepartout felt as though he were always merely
waiting *for* his master. Waiting for Phileas Fogg to come back and rescue
him, waiting for Fogg to decide his destiny, waiting for Fogg to
accidentally or purposefully kill himself...

And now he was waiting to see if his master would live.

Fogg and Master Jules had been invited to a nobleman's castle for
dinner, no doubt to either gain access to Jules's mind or Fogg's secrets.
It didn't matter which nobleman; it didn't even matter what nationality the
nobleman held. The nobleman could have been in league with the League--or
he might have been out for his own nefarious purposes. In the end, it was
all the same. He had to be stopped.

Passepartout had been waiting in the servants' hall, unneeded for his
usual duties at the moment. He'd felt bored and useless, watching the
other servants moving about with almost supernaturally silent efficiency,
and for his own amusement had started doing tricks with various bits of
fruit and knives, anything he could get his hands on really. He started
out with juggling but quickly his tricks became increasingly complicated.
The other servants had not been amused, however, and so he'd given it up.
It was hard to concentrate with so many frigid, unapproving looks focused
on your back.

And then halfway through the desert course, when Passepartout had at
last begun to feel that the evening would come to an end and he could go
back aboard the Aurora and tend to his master, or perhaps share a laugh and
a coffee with Master Jules, a couple new men had appeared--big, heavy men
in awkward suits, certainly not a typical house servant, and they had
escorted Passepartout out of the kitchens. He'd gone without a struggle,
playing up his nervousness and confusion even as he furiously thought
through and discarded several escape plans. He would simply have to wait
until he discovered what exactly the situation was. And then he would wait
for his master's orders.

He was taken to the dining hall of the pretentious old castle
belonging to the nobleman, and the sight that met his eyes made him pause
his stride involuntarily. He was pushed forward violently by one of the
disagreeable guards, broken out of his momentary paralysis.

Jules was struggling fruitlessly in the grip of two more of these
particular servants, his nice newly hired evening suit that Passepartout
had just specially pressed for the young man getting mussed by its rough
handling. The young writer was looking up defiantly at the nobleman,
shouting something proud and angry and defiant, and the nobleman was
ignoring him, favoring Fogg instead with a thoroughly irritating smirk on
his no doubt handsome and aristocratic face. Fogg stood near his young
friend, looking between the nobleman and Verne, unheld by anyone yet
surrounded from the back and sides by his own set of guards, a calculating
look on his face.

Passepartout knew the scene of old, could act out everyone's part and
have it finished more quickly than it would take in reality, and yet every
time it happened his heart juddered to a halt and for the space of a tiny,
tiny instant in which thought, feeling, experience, knowledge, and the
current happenings all coalesced and converged into one compact
realization, he knew someone would die. And he was always frightened it
might turn out to be his master--or Jules, or himself, or Rebecca were she
here--this time.

Fogg was including Passepartout in his gazes now, communicating with
the valet silently, using cool green eyes alone. Passepartout understood
and nodded imperceptibly. He would wait for his master's signal, and then
he would do what needed to be done. He was prepared. Just like always.

How they came to these circumstances always varied, and how these
circumstances were resolved also held an infinite variety of possibilities,
and yet the situation always seemed to remain the same. Perhaps Master
Jules would unexpectedly save the day, or perhaps someone else would put in
an appearance and complicate matters, tilting them toward one final end or
another. Passepartout knew it wouldn't be Miss Rebecca appearing from
nowhere this time--she was on a mission, far away, out of reach and
unknowing of the current circumstances surrounding her family. Things
never went the way they expected; these things always got at least a little
out of hand. It was inevitable. It was maddening.

And it was still a shock when the nobleman actually fired his pistol
at Jules, tired of waiting for Fogg to talk, and when Fogg shouted "No!"
and rushed forward with blinding speed to push Jules out of the way, and
when his master fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, suprisingly small for
such a tall and strong man.

Neither Jules nor Passepartout hesitated, though, taking that
breathless moment of surprise that comes after an action has come to its
unexpected end to despatch with the nobleman and as many guards as they
could. Passepartout punched and kicked; Jules tripped and found a chair to
smash over someone's head. Passepartout was gratified that he was given
the chance to knock the nobleman unconscious. The rest of the guards ran
away; they were the hired thugs, after all, and with no one left to order
them about or pay them, they had no reason to stay and fight. They didn't
matter.

It was left to Jules and Passepartout to lift Fogg and carry him to
the Aurora. Jules immediately after that ran off to find the nearest
physician or at least the nearest house where he could find help, while
Passepartout tended to his master as best he could, attempting to staunch
the flow of blood from the wound on Fogg's forehead. The gentleman never
woke, and Passepartout was gently but forcefully removed from his master's
quarters when the doctor and his nurse arrived. There simply wasn't enough
room for them all in that cramped space.

And so now Passepartout paced the hallway outside Fogg's room,
waiting to see if his master was still alive. He heard a step behind him
and turned. Jules, in only billowing shirtsleeves and braces, joined him
by the door.

"He'll be alright," the young man said. He had his arms folded in
front of him, as if he were hugging himself. "He'll be alright,
Passepartout."

Passepartout nodded. "Yes, Master Jules." He looked again at the
other Frenchman. "Are *you* being alright?" he added in concern.

Jules nodded distractedly. "I'm fine, Passepartout...are you?"

The valet nodded again and turned back to the door, willing it to
open, to let him know. He hated these waiting games. He hated that his
master always made him wait. But he did it, as patiently as he could,
because there were no other choices.

"I shouldn't have gotten riled up," Master Jules was saying.
Passepartout glanced over, saw the intense, inwardly focused look on the
writer's face. He was still hugging himself, the top buttons of his shirt
loosened to allow him more comfort. Passepartout hoped the young man had
neatly laid his coat down, rather than tossing it over a chair, and then
chastised himself for such a silly thought when he had more important
matters to worry about. "Fogg was giving me a look, telling me to stay
calm. He knew it was a trap. He knew that-that--that *man* was waiting
for me to make a mistake. And I did. And Fogg..."

"But I should have been shot, not Phileas!" Jules stared at the other
man, horrified, pleading to have his guilt taken away. Passepartout wished
he could do that, but it was only up to Jules. "He shouldn't have jumped
in front of me!"

Passepartout shrugged. "Is Master Fogg's way," he said. "Is what he
be being best at, Master Jules. We cannot stop him from that, can we?"

Jules nodded, the look on his face crumpling in on itself. He still
looked fairly miserable. "You're right, of course, Passepartout," he
offered a wan smile. "As always."

"No," Jules shook his head, leaning against the railing that went
along the corridor of the upper floor. "No, Passepartout, I'll wait with
you. If you don't mind?"

Passepartout paused, then shook his own head, stepping back so that
he stood level with the writer, even if he didn't actually lean against the
railing as well. "No no, Master Jules, I don't mind. Company...might be
helping."

Jules smiled a little at that but said nothing, for which
Passepartout was grateful. He was grateful for the silence and grateful
for the company. He usually never had company when he had to wait for his
master. But then, usually, Fogg was haring off to do something the others
wouldn't like, and therefore wouldn't be allowed to know about. His
manservant only knew about them because...well, because he was a manservant
and usually already knew what Fogg was going to do anyway. That was the
problem with being a manservant, the manservant's curse. You were
entrusted with all your master's secrets.

They waited together for an hour or more, sometimes sitting with
their backs against the wall, sometimes pacing the floor, sometimes simply
standing in place and watching the door. Jules remained quiet, for which
Passepartout remained grateful; he didn't feel up to being his usual
chatteringly cheerful self. And finally his master's door opened.
Passepartout didn't dare speak; he was only a manservant; he waited for
Jules to say something.

"Well? Is he--will he be alright?" Jules scrambled up, rather
stiffly; he'd been sitting on the floor, legs pulled up to his chest,
without moving for quite a while. It had been Passepartout's turn to pace,
neatly avoiding the younger man's booted toes. Jules didn't take up much
room, but the corridor was narrow.

"He'll be fine, sir," the grizzled old doctor with a splendid pair of
muttonchops looked at Jules with kind grey eyes, and then turned the same
soothingly competent and clear-eyed gaze on Passepartout when the little
valet took an involuntary step of relief forward. "The bullet grazed his
forehead but barely even broke skin." The older man paused, resettling his
spectacles on his nose. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what
happened?"

"Er..."

"Hunting accident," Passepartout blurted out before Jules had to
stall for too long. The younger Frenchman gave the manservant a wide-eyed,
disbelieving look--a hunting accident at night when dressed for dinner?--
but the doctor, glancing between them both, apparently decided to refrain
from any comment. Instead he went on, "As I said, it's nothing too
serious, though I do ask that you keep him in bed and make sure he gets
rest for the next few days. Check on him occasionally, wake him every few
hours as he sleeps. He seems a feisty fellow, but I'm sure you both
already know how that."

Jules smiled wanly, as he obviously felt he was expected to do, and
Passepartout nodded seriously. The physician looked between them again and
nodded to himself before continuing his instructions. "After a few days--
no more than two or three, I should think--he can move about a bit, but not
too much, I suggest. Will you be remaining in the area for that long?"
Passepartout shook his head silently. "Then please make sure his head is
attended to by a physician wherever you go next." The nurse slipped
through the door behind the older man, carrying his things. "Ahh. Thank
you, Elizabeth." The doctor smiled at her, taking his cloak, gloves, and
medical bag away from her. He turned back to the Frenchmen. "He is still
a bit shaken, I must warn you. He doesn't actually remember the--
accident."

"That's quite common for a head injury," the doctor soothed, "and
it's only those few moments he can't recall; he seems to be perfectly lucid
in all other regards. He did seem worried about another person--Verne, I
think he said the name was...is that either of you?" Jules's face tightened
as he nodded. His arms were folded in front of him again. "Ahh. Well. I
suggest you go in there and reassure him on the matter of your safety at
least. But do let him get some rest as well." The doctor fumbled with his
case, switching it from right to left hand, then shook hands with them
both, surprising Passepartout. "Good evening, sirs."

Passepartout escorted the physician and nurse out of the Aurora and
into their carriage. After making sure they were safely off into the
night, he came rattling back up the steps to the second deck of the
airship. He could hear his master's strident voice and Jules's softer if
deeper tones attempting to calm the gentleman down. Jules had left the
door open. Passepartout remained outside the room, listening and waiting.

"The doctor said it was quite common if you didn't remember what
happened right before you fainted--"

"I never faint!" The words were snapped out particularly crisply and
haughtily.

"Fine, when you were shot unconscious!" Jules shot back.

"Ahh." Passepartout could hear his master subside, retreat, at that.
"Yes. I was shot. Of course."

"You remember now?" Jules's voice was quiet now, afraid.

"Of course I remember," was the bad-tempered response, with that odd
slurring on 'remember' that sometimes entered Fogg's voice even when he
wasn't drunk. It overlay the worry and concern, burying the emotions so
they weren't recognizably there unless one knew Phileas Fogg well.
Passepartout crept closer and could just see Fogg lying on his bed, wrapped
in covers, his head wrapped in white bandages. Jules remained out of
sight. "That damned fool was threatening you."

"I was the damned fool for ignoring you," Jules replied soberly. "I
shouldn't have let him get to me, but his remarks about the poor and the
homeless--"

"I know, Jules," Phileas cut him off. "I should have known better
than to try stopping you after you'd gotten started on one of your
crusades."

Passepartout heard the younger man's wry laugh. By now, the writer
required no more reassurance from the older man, and knew better than to
take offence at a remark like that. "The doctor said you should get some
rest," Jules said, the shift in his voice indicating he was standing up as
he said the words. Passepartout pulled back into the shadows, waiting,
almost missing the lengthy pause of silence between Master Jules and Master
Fogg. "How do you feel?"

"I have a bloody splitting headache, that's how I feel," Fogg
replied. "But I'll be fine. Get some rest yourself, Verne."

"Good night, Fogg."

"Send Passepartout in if you see him?"

"I will."

"Good night, Verne."

Passepartout stepped forward just as Jules was leaving the room,
acting for all the world as if he had just now innocently come up the
stairs. Master Jules met his eye and gestured behind him discreetly,
toward the bed. The writer was looking markedly more cheerful than he had
before his conversation with the English gentleman. Passepartout nodded, a
trademark grin on his face. Jules smiled back, clasping Passepartout's
shoulder before slipping away to the lab.

Passepartout entered his master's room.

"Ahh Passepartout," the Englishman said when he saw his valet.
"Would you be so good as to fetch me a glass of water?"

Passepartout nodded wordlessly and went to the pitcher standing on
Fogg's dressing table. He poured out a glass and crossed the room, helping
his master sit in a more upright position before handing over the glass.

"Thank you," Fogg muttered absently before taking a long draught of
the cold water. Passepartout remained by his bedside silently and
patiently, waiting. At last Fogg held out the glass for Passepartout to
take away and clean.

Passepartout clicked his heels together and bowed his head before
taking the glass and picking up the pitcher that needed to be refilled,
making his way toward the door and preparing to leave the room.

"I will be. Thank you for despatching with those brutes so
efficiently after I...became indisposed."

"Master Jules helped."

"Of course he did." Passepartout could hear the smile in his
master's voice, and Passepartout grinned in agreement. "Nonetheless, thank
you, Passepartout."

"You being welcome, Master." The manservant waited a moment, and
when Fogg said no more, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Fogg was
already asleep. He smiled softly to himself and left the room on well-
trained silent feet (no matter what kind of training it had been) to
deposit the glass elsewhere and refill the pitcher. He would spend the
rest of the night outside his master's room, in case Fogg needed anything,
and to check on Fogg occasionally as the doctor had ordered.

He would wait patiently, as always, until he was needed.

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